


Not your circus: not your monkey

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Sterek Week 2017, sterekmeetcute, stiles and derek are children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 01:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12519964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: It started the year Stiles’ mom forced him to perform onstage at the Polish Community Center, and Derek Hale threatened to rip Jackson Whittmore’s throat out with his teeth.





	Not your circus: not your monkey

**Author's Note:**

> For Sterek Week 2017- Day 3: Meet Cute
> 
> I took the "cute" in meet-cute and ran with it. :-)

It started the year Stiles’ mom forced him to perform onstage at the Polish Community Center, and Derek Hale threatened to rip Jackson Whittmore’s throat out with his teeth. It was also the year he saw his father cry for the first time because airplanes flew into some tall buildings on TV, and the year Scott McCall sat down to play action figures with him during lunch. Stiles loved DC, and Scott loved Marvel, and their superheroes fought to the death over chocolate pudding everyday. Scott was _super_ cool.

So, if you asked Stiles, he would tell you it was a pretty momentous year, because momentous was one of the words on his spelling test. Then he would probably tell you some other meaningless stuff, because he never stopped talking.

Stiles was seven years old; his world was narrow, self-satisfied, secure. Life revolved in simple circles, with him at the center. This was one of the first times in memory that Stiles had managed to not get exactly what he wanted from his parents, thus he was up on stage, shuffling along to a sprightly tune, attempting to do the _Oberek_ during the Polish-American festival. 

The festival isn’t celebrated anymore in Beacon Hills. Hell, the Polish Community Center doesn’t even exist anymore- it was torn down five years later to build a swanky apartment complex. But back when Stiles was seven, it was a pretty big deal, especially for his mom, who was a second-generation immigrant. The whole town celebrated. There was a local band outside on the lawn, playing folk music. The Beacon Ladies Association sold homemade pierogi with mushrooms and sauerkraut, golabki and bowls of hot and sour borscht from folding tables set up alongside the old wooden stage. And the worst thing, in Stiles’s opinion, was how Stiles’s mother had assembled her son and his Sunday school classmates into a mini recital wearing full on traditional Polish dress.

Scott didn’t have to dance on stage! He got to sit in the crowd with his parents and eat chruściki. Life was so unfair. 

His mom, Claudia, was taking snapshots of him in his involuntary servitude with the brand new digital camera his father had given her for Christmas. Even at seven, it was apparent that Stiles was not a born dancer. He wasn’t really a born walker, truth be told. He had no rhythm, no grace, no general coordination. He was always out of step, distracted, his brain spinning too fast to learn anyone’s routines but his own. He stumbled around the stage in his billowy red and white striped pants, his embroidered vest and puffy white shirt, resolutely staring anywhere but at the camera. His red hat had a peacock feather stuck through it that his mom had bought at the craft store, and the hard pointy end was digging into his scalp. He was _miserable_.

His class, all five of them, stomped and jumped and spun through their routine, accompanied by a folk CD blasting at maximum volume from a boombox adjacent to the stage. Stiles looked down, avoiding the flash of his mom’s camera, and there he was, standing in the crowd at the lip of the stage. A tall, lean, ten-year-old boy with jet-black hair.

Derek Hale.

 _Everybody_ knew Derek. People in small towns hoarded tragedy like their grandparents fine china, and nothing was more tragic than the Hale family.

Derek watched Stiles seriously, as if he weren't making a complete fool out of himself, which he was. He had already accidentally stomped on his friend Heather’s right foot twice, and elbowed Danny Mahealani in his left arm, so they’d each given him a wide berth on either side.

He forgot about his humiliating arms and feet and concentrated on Derek Hale. It was the first good look he’d gotten at the older boy since a house fire killed his entire family. Before that, the Hale’s had always lived way out in the preserve, in a big, beautiful three story mansion. They had barely come into town, and Derek and his two sisters had been home-schooled. They minded their own business, and didn’t have friends in Beacon Hills, except the veterinarian, Dr. Deaton.

So Stiles had never really _seen_ Derek up close. But he sure heard a lot about him.

“Those Hale’s always thought they were better than this town,” he had overheard Mr. McCall say meanly before Scott’s mom had shushed him and sent Stiles and Scott out to play.

“I feel awful for the kid,” his father, a Deputy who had responded to the 911 emergency call the night Derek lost his home and family, repeated over and over for months. “He has no one but Alan. And I see how everyone reacts to him. They say they are sorry about his family, then book it out of there as fast as they can because they don’t know how to deal with the tragedy, and he’s too young to really understand why people are so awkward and uncomfortable.” So maybe that was one reason why Stiles couldn't take his eyes off Derek that day. No one knew quite what to make of either of them. They were both human islands stuck in the middle of a lonely, embarrassing sea of space.

Over Derek’s shoulder Stiles could see Jackson Whittemore lounging next to the food table. Stiles _hated_ Jackson. He was smug, always bragging about how much money his mom and dad had and how cool their cars were. The girls at school all thought Jackson was cute, but Stiles thought he had lizard lips. He was downright mean, a bully. Jackson sat behind Lydia Martin, the prettiest girl in second grade--and, according to Stiles, the prettiest girl in the world-- and yanked on her strawberry-blonde hair and cheated off her math tests. He was currently pointing and laughing at Stiles in all his costumed disgrace.

Stiles saw Jackson look at the food table. Once, twice. The ladies who were in charge of dishing out food and taking payment were gossiping dutifully. One was wearing a tacky floral dress. They had left two twenty dollar bills laying out next to the cardboard shoebox they were using as a cash till.

Jackson eased one hand over, snatched the money, and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Stiles was stunned. Jackson had just stolen money. Stiles’s father arrested people for stealing! It was against the law. Stiles had been raised with such a strict code of honor that he wouldn’t even pilfer a penny from the jar of change on top of his parent’s dresser. He had once found an open bag of Red Vines on the shelf at the grocery store, and eaten all of three before he panicked and confessed to his mother, who was the next aisle over. So Stiles wasn’t without sin, but he knew non-edible property was sacred. And stealing _money_ was unthinkable.

The women stopped talking, and one looked down at where the money was supposed to be. She frowned, and started hunting among the paper plates and crockpots. She turned to Jackson, who was wearing a mask of innocence, and said something to him. Stiles couldn’t hear what she said-- couldn’t hear anything over the tinny music and his heartbeat pounding in his ears-- but he saw Jackson drawback dramatically, shaking his head. Then he turned and pointed at Derek.

Stiles froze. He simply couldn’t move a foot, which was totally weird because usually every limb was in perpetual motion. Normally he couldn’t stop moving, no matter how hard he tried. But now he stood rooted to his spot in the middle of the stage, dimly, painfully aware that people in the crowd aside from Jackson were now laughing at him, trying to hide their smiles behind their palms. His mother was staring at him, bewildered. His father, who had no natural rhythm himself, waved his big hands helpfully, like Stiles was a scared little animal he could shoo into moving.

But Stiles wasn’t scared. Stiles was _furious_.

The woman from the food table scowled and dug her fists into her ample hips, darting out from behind the table and grabbing Derek by one arm. Stiles saw her speaking forcefully to him. He saw the blank, confused expression on Derek’s face turn to sullen anger. Derek turned toward Jackson, ripped his arm from the lady in the flowered dress, and lunged onto the younger boy. Both boys went down in a flailing heap, with Jackson on the bottom. People scattered, yelling, and the rest of Stiles’s fellow dancers came to a wobbly halt. His mother stopped the CD player, and Stiles bolted down the stairs at the end of the stage, squirming through the crowd of adults to get to Derek and Jackson.

Stiles’ dad was already there, pulling Derek and Jackson to their feet. Derek’s fists were still clenched in the collar of Jackson’s stupid fancy polo shirt. “I didn’t steal any money! He’s a damn liar!” Dr. Deaton appeared next to Derek on silent feet, and the vet and Stiles’ dad pulled them apart.

“That Hale boy is vicious. He’s like a wild animal,” Stiles heard someone in the crowd murmur in a mean-spirited mock whisper. By the looks of it, Derek heard them too. His face turned bright red under his messy black hair, flushing to the tips of his too small ears.

“Where is the money, young man?” the woman from the food table thundered, peering down into Derek’s face. “Give it back to me, right now.”

“I don’t have it,” Derek honked out, voice splintering like glass.

Jackson sniggered at him, and Derek snapped his jaws in Jackson’s direction. “I’ll rip your stupid throat out with my teeth, liar!”

Jackson reared back, as if Derek had fangs. “I saw you,” Jackson lied. “All your money burned up with your family in the fire and now you’re poor, so you stole.” Derek started to shake, from anger or fear, Stiles wasn’t really sure. He looked seconds away from bursting into tears. This was _awful_. 

“Don’t make me go through your pockets, son,” Dad said gently. “Just tell the truth and give it back.” Dr. Deaton was strangely silent, watching Derek with hooded eyes and a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I swear, I don’t have it.” 

Stiles was plastered to the sidelines, but close enough to see the misery and defensiveness in Derek’s face. Oh lord, he was the kind of boy who cursed and fought and threatened to rip people's throats out. He looked like the kind of guy who would wear a leather jacket when he got big and drive a sports car or a motorcycle or something equally as cool. He was probably trouble, but he wasn’t a thief.

_Don’t be a tattletale. Don’t be a tattletale._

His father reached for Derek’s pocket to start searching for the missing money, wearing his disappointed face, the one that always made Stiles sob. Darnit, Jackson was never going to forget this. 

“He didn’t take it!” Stiles yelled loudly, startling everyone around him. “Jackson did!” Everyone stared at him in his outburst, but Stiles was getting used to funny looks by this point in his life. He met Derek Hale’s wary, surprised eyes. They reminded him of the pictures he had seen in science class of the Milky Way; a galaxy of swirling colors. Derek could burn a hole through him with those eyes. 

His father frowned at him. “Now Stiles, that's a pretty serious accusation. Are you sure you’re not getting back at Jackson for putting glue down your shirt during recess last year?” 

No, but he remembered how glue felt dripping down his spine. Very, very sticky. And his favorite superhero shirt had been ruined! 

“Derek didn’t take the money,” Stiles repeated. Something felt warm and funny in his chest when he said Derek’s name out loud for the first time, but he ignored it. He jabbed a finger at Jackson. “Jackson did. I saw him, Daddy, when I was up on stage. I saw him stick it in his back pocket.” 

His father, Dr. Deaton, Derek and the lady in the flower dress, all pivoted slowly. Jackson’s face, already sweaty and red from fighting with Derek, turned crimson. “Jackson,” Stiles’ dad said. 

“Stiles is just picking on me!” he yelled in defense. 

Dr. Deaton stuck a hand in Jackson’s back pocket and pulled out two wadded-up twenty dollar bills. He handed them over to the woman who ran the food table. “Huh,” she said, stupidly. Jackson’s parents appeared next to them, and hauled him away, yelling. 

Stiles’s father straightened the sleeve of Derek’s henley and let him go. “Sorry about that, kid. Come on, let's get out of here.” 

Derek stared at Stiles, and Stiles held his gaze, as if hypnotized. Isolation radiated from Derek like an invisible force field, but there was a gleam in his eyes, made up of surprise and gratitude and suspicion, bearing down on Stiles like concentrated fire. He felt _singed_. Dr. Deaton put a hand on Derek’s arm again, and Dad walked Derek and Dr. Deaton out, the grownups talking quietly between themselves. Derek stared at him over his shoulder the whole way. Stiles made to follow, but his mother snagged him by the back of his embroidered vest. “I don't think so, mister. Not your circus: not your monkey.” 

Dazed, Stiles looked up at her. He felt like he was swimming, and his head finally broke water. He noticed everyone was scrutinizing him with funny looks on their faces, especially Scott and the McCalls, and Heather and the other kids from Sunday school. 

“Jackson is a butthead,” he explained finally, trying to get everyone to just leave him alone. 

His mother, always Stiles’ champion, nodded. “You told the truth. That was good.” 

“Then how come everyone is looking at me like I’m weird?” 

“Because you are!” Scott blurted out, coming to stand at Stiles’ side. “But I still like you.” 

“Weren't you scared of Derek?” Heather asked him, eyes wide. 

“Why would I be scared? He lost his family. He’s not some crazy murderer, or monster. Besides, he didn’t laugh at me while I was dancing. I think he’s an okay dude.” 

“Kid has a strange way of sorting things out, don’t you think?” Mr. McCall whispered to his wife. 

His mom leaned down and plucked the peacock feather out of his hat. Stiles sighed in relief. “I’m proud of you,” she said with soft smile. “Don’t ever change.” Stiles would never forget his mom’s face in that moment, or the feeling that swelled in his chest. He would carry it with him through a lot of hard times. 

So that was the year Stiles found his best friend, realized that adults could cry, and that they weren't always right. It was the year everyone learned he couldn’t dance, but they mostly knew that already. It was the year he pitted himself against Jackson Whittemore, and started to seed his own reputation as a weird kid and an independent thinker. 

But to Stiles, it would always be the year he became fascinated with Derek Hale. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. I'm [Jamie!](http://jmeelee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ...I am laughing at myself bc I actually wrote something rated "G". It's all porn from here on out, folks!


End file.
